


Silent Night

by illumynare



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, F/M, Missing Scene, almost but not entirely unlike fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-10 16:04:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10441533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illumynare/pseuds/illumynare
Summary: Near the end of Project Freelancer, York and Carolina find one last moment of peace together. (Remix of IMAgentMI's "All Is Bright.")





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IMAgentMI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IMAgentMI/gifts).
  * Inspired by [December 11th - All is Bright](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8909857) by [IMAgentMI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IMAgentMI/pseuds/IMAgentMI). 



You know he's watching.

You're failing worse and worse every day—as a leader and a soldier—but you've still got _that_ much situational awareness. The world is narrowed down to the whirl of red-and-green targets, your pounding heartbeat, the torque and strain of your body—

But you still know that York is slouched in the observation room above, not even bothering to wear his armor, coffee mug in hand.

You've always known when he was watching you.

"Round complete," says FILSS, as the targets all reset to green.

"Run it again," you say, not looking up. You know he wants to catch your eye. You know he wants you to smile, relax, all the things you don't have time for.

You won't let him make you.

"That last round showed a three point six percent increase—"

"Just _run it again_ ," you snarl, and launch into another attack.

It used to make you happy, his eyes on your six and his laughter at your back. You loved that from the moment you pulled that lighter out of his hands, he never stopped looking at you.

Now he looks and he looks and he can't see how you're failing. He smiles like you're still Number One, and it's not right, it's not _fair,_ when your team is falling apart and it's all your fault.

You couldn't stop CT from turning traitor. You couldn't stop Tex from killing her. You couldn't, you can't—

_But you will._

"Run it again," you say breathlessly, before FILSS can even tell you the round is complete.

If you keep trying, if you keep training. If you throw away all those moments when you doubted the Director, when you wanted something he didn't tell you to be—if you rip out everything weak in your soul—

(York is a Freelancer and a soldier and he deserves his spot on the leaderboard, but he's weaker than you, Carolina. You've always known this.)

—if you do all that, it will be enough.

It has to be.

Your heel hits the last target, but you overextend, and go down hard. For a moment all you can do is breathe and think, _Sloppy._

"Round complete," says FILSS. "Four point five increase in efficiency."

You get to your feet, but your vision is swimming. You nearly say _Run it again,_ but your breath rasps in your throat, and you can stop now, can't you? For tonight. You're down to nine seconds, and it's not _enough,_ it won't beat Tex, but it's better. You can go to sleep, give in to this weight dragging at your bones, and you'll get up at 4 AM tomorrow and practice again.

Tomorrow you'll be enough. You have to be, Carolina.

On your way out, you finally glance up.

York is gone.

You think, _Good riddance,_ but you're already climbing the steps up to the observation room. Because York is York, and you know he won't give up, so if he's not slouched in the chair, then—

"Hey there, Carolina."

He's sitting on the floor, his back against one of the table legs, one hand covering the bad eye and most of the good one. His face is screwed up in pain, but his voice is light and breezy. "What's a girl like you doing in a place like— _ow_."

You give your armored foot a good extra _shove_ into his side before you pull it back.

"If your eyes are strained, you should be resting in your room," you tell him.

"No," he says. "No, I'm just . . . dazzled by your radiance."

It's the same kind of idiotic line he's used on you a hundred times before, and you always laughed and you smiled and you were the kind of person who couldn't beat Tex. Next he'll probably to tell you to relax.

"Goddamnit, York, is this some kind of guilt trip—"

Delta appears by York's shoulder, his green glow bright in the dim room.

"I do not believe Agent York has the psychosocial skills necessary for such a ploy."

"Aw, come on, D. Help me out here."

"I have just assured Agent Carolina that you are not duplicitous. I believe that qualifies as assistance."

York lets out an annoyed little huff, and you're almost tempted to laugh. The two of them deserve each other.

"All right, soldier," you tell him. "Get up. You're not even supposed to be here."

He tries a grin. "Technically, neither are you."

The Director has lots of rules about when and where and how his agents are allowed to train. The trick is knowing which ones he wants you to break.

"I didn't _ask_ you to watch me practice," you say, but the words come out weak. Because you never asked, and he always came to watch. It's what you used to like about him.

"I'm not watching you," he says cheerfully. "I'm . . . admiring this beautiful wall panel."

"Really."

The look he slants up at you from his good eye is not as cocksure as usual. "And it would make my evening if you would sit down and enjoy looking at it with me.”

The memory hits you like a thumb stabbing into a nerve center: a late night in the rec room, sitting by York, watching the lights on the crooked plastic Christmas tree that North had scrounged up. _It would make my Christmas,_ he had said, and you sat down beside him. You were happy, beside him.

Everything was easier back then. York had lost his eye but he hadn't gotten Delta yet—nobody fought about who had AI and who didn't—and Tex was a bitch but she hadn't killed one of your teammates.

CT was already a traitor then. If you hadn't been so goddamned weak _then,_ things might not be like this now.

But you're very tired, and York has always been your weakness. Maybe sometime soon you'll root him out, but for now . . .

For now, you pull the helmet off your head. You sit down beside York, and he leans against your shoulder like power armor is as comfortable as a pillow. Delta hovers between the two of you, so close you could curl your fingers and touch him.

"Ten minutes," you tell York.

"Yes, boss," he says.

This is what you'll remember, years later: that he waited for you that night because he didn't know what else to do. That he trusted you as long as he could. That you really did trust him once, that what you had was real while it lasted. You'll remember, _I understand why she did what she did._

_(_ And one evening on a planet called Chorus, you'll sit in front of a Christmas tree with two teams you've made your own bickering over eggnog. You'll remember all these moments, all the times York's head rested against your shoulder, and your tears won't be entirely sad.)

This is what you'll remember tomorrow: CT's blood on the floor. _Better luck next time, Carolina._ Numbers changing on the board, and never the right ones. _I'll do whatever it takes. You've given me everything._

(York isn't part of your tomorrow, Carolina.)

This is what you know, here in this moment: York's breathing, soft and steady. Delta's green glow, reflected faintly off the floor. Three bolts in the wall panel. Your own heartbeat, slowing down.

(Right now, you're at peace.)


End file.
